


Spotless Mind

by Veelez (Hyela)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:50:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Veelez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s slowly fading. Soon, she won’t even recognize her own family. The only thing they can do in the meantime is to cherish short-term memories and spurs of the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spotless Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homoeroticismforthewin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homoeroticismforthewin/gifts).



> Sheriff/Mrs Stilinski  
> Rated T for SADNESS. And soft sad sex.  
> Pre-Canon

_How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!_  
 _The world forgetting, by the world forgot._  
 _Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!_  
 _Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;_  
 _Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;_  
 _"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"_  
 _Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,_  
 _Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n._  
 _Grace shines around her with serenest beams,_  
 _And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams._  
 _For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,_  
 _And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,_  
 _For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,_  
 _For her white virgins hymeneals sing,_  
 _To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,_  
 _And melts in visions of eternal day._  
~Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard

  
John Stilinski is making love to his wife, slowly, quietly.

  
They do not want to wake up their son. It’s a nightmare to try to make him sleep, nowadays. He is constantly afraid to leave his mother’s side, even just for a moment, so sleeping is an abjection to him. He thinks that she might be gone in the morning.

  
John secretly shares Ùisdean’s... Stiles's fears.

  
When he touches Annys, he has to watch himself, because when he’s not careful enough, these fears shows in his eyes and his wife grows cold and irritated. She doesn’t like being reminded, in any way, that she is fragile. That she will be more and more fragile, to the point of breakableness.

  
It is not just her body. Her mind is getting thinner and more vulnerable too. She has frequent mood swings, even though she was such a calm, temperate person before. She has no energy. Simple conversations exhaust her. She has difficulty to concentrate, to remember things. Soon, she would have a hard time remembering faces, the doctor said. At this point, she would either have to go to the hospital, or John would have to hire her a nurse.

  
Annys would be stuck to a bed, for the remaining of her life. And he’d have to watch as her legs became little more than sticks, as her skin yellowed, as her features agonizingly slowly declined, as both her youth and beauty faded. He would have to bear watching his son witness it too.

  
In the end, there would be nothing left of the woman he married, except the still hot, beating memory of her in his heart. Time was eating pieces of her, a little more each passing day. The most terrible thing in this situation was that, agitated, bathing in the trepidations of the waiting, John almost wished it would all happen sooner. He’d have strangled himself for having this thought, if only he had the strength left. Still, the whole thing was comparable to being skinned alive with a pocket knife.

  
And, of course, the pain would dull with time. This perspective was even worse. He’d rather go through Hell and suffer hundreds of different torments rather than become indifferent to his wife’s death. To be left unsurprised by it, only tired, resigned and mildly angry. It was enough that Annys was dying; his passionate love for her should remain intact and alive. So should the love of Ùisdean for his mother. It wouldn’t be good if they arrived to that point where he’d start to resent her her illness. And if she had to leave sooner, then it would appease him. Damn. What a monster he was.

  
But he didn’t have to think about all of that for now.

  
John Stilinski was making love to his wife, stroking her feverish body, kissing every surface of it he could reach, sliding slowly and deeply inside her. Sometimes, they stopped just to kiss sloppily, just to cling to one another and reassure the other with their presence. Just to hear the rain tapping appropriately against their window.

  
They never uttered a word during sex anymore. Talking at night, in the dark, seemed like an act of violence somehow. It was brusquely interrupting them. They could do with only the longing gazes and touches. The silence wasn’t exactly oppressing. You could feel it, almost tangible in the room, but it was like a blanket, preventing anyone from saying something stupid they would regret. As for the sweet nothings and the little ‘I love you’s they were used to share, they now appeared like annoying, unnecessary little insects, buzzing around with no purpose. They didn’t need them.

  
Sometimes, Annys would just start crying, quietly. She would not break the vow of silence, but she would let tears flood her cheeks without making a move to stop them. She would clench and unclench her fists, and then she would simply take John in her arms and clinch to his clothes instead. Evidently, John let her. Whatever she needed. After that, she would start kissing him softly on his neck, on his face, on his lips, little butterfly touches. Meekly asking for comfort. And they would make love again. They were savouring the moment, seizing the day. Or rather the night. They didn’t have much longer, so they had to take advantage of the alone time.

  
One night, though, Annys broke the silence, and their semblance of peace.

  
“I am fine with dying slowly,” she had admitted, staring right ahead, not even looking at him, “That way I can forget you. You and Ginny.”

  
It was like a slap to the face, and in that moment, he thought he would slap her. Force some sense into her. But he would never have the indecency to do so. And then she added:

  
“Please, don’t be mad. It will be easier to accept the end coming if I forget you. It will feel... less like I am failing you.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry. This is cruel and selfish. Maybe I should wish for you to forget me. So you don’t have to deal with loss. But see... it’s... it’s a comfort to know that someone will be dealing with the loss of me. You can tell me I’m horrible, if you want.”

  
John didn’t want to. It was painful to hear, and it did not seem to make much sense at first, but John thought he got it. Annys was more scared for what she was leaving behind, than she was of what she would find forward, if there was anything to be found. She fear death less than she feared loss, the tearing apart for the living, the sorrow caused by her departing. She didn’t think she could face death with the knowledge of it causing pain to the people she loved.

  
“Nobody asks you to be courageous, or strong, or anything at all,” John answered, his heart pounding and a lump in his throat, “You are not selfish. And even if you are, who is the filthy asshole who will judge you? Not this jerk, here, I can tell you. And neither will Stiles. All I can tell you is that we won’t forget you. We won’t forget you, but we will carry on and... and do not feel guilty on our account.”

  
He didn’t know what else to say. Things were clear, a second ago, but the more the silence was breached, the more things became nebulous in his mind. He just needed to stop talking. Annys seemed to understand. She did not look appeased, only resigned, but she still kissed him on the cheek and lied back on the bed.  
She stared at the ceiling for a long time, and he stared at her, waiting for his heartbeat to steady. He watched as her eyelids heavied, as she drifted towards sleep, slowly, probably still thinking about a future sleep from which she wouldn’t wake up. But before she fell asleep, she smiled weakly and whispered “I really wish I could just snap my fingers... and my mind would be spotless... and so would be yours... and death would be a bliss instead of a dread.”

  
John knew that he would lack sleep that night, haunted by that frightened wish and wondering if there was any truth to it.


End file.
